


Unlikely

by apple_pi



Category: The Lord of the Rings RPF
Genre: First Time Bottoming, M/M, lol, should warn for realism i guess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-06-18
Updated: 2006-06-18
Packaged: 2018-07-28 14:20:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7644307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apple_pi/pseuds/apple_pi
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The thing was, he couldn’t sleep. The thing was, he couldn’t sleep, because he’d just been buggered up the arse, and the buggerer (he pondered this construction for a moment and then moved on) was now sleeping the sleep of the just (and satisfied and happy and fucking not sore up the arse) in the buggaree’s bed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unlikely

The thing was, he couldn’t sleep.

The thing was, he couldn’t sleep, because he’d just been buggered up the arse, and the buggerer (he pondered this construction for a moment and then moved on) was now sleeping the sleep of the just (and satisfied and happy and fucking not sore up the arse) in the buggaree’s bed.

Billy rubbed his hands over his face and stayed where he was, namely, enthroned on the toilet, naked and still slippery from a recent (two minutes ago) shower.

Billy had done his research, see. He’d read books. He’d studied manuals and how-tos and instruction booklets. He’d watched a few helpful DVDs, and then (purely in the spirit of research, of course), watched some of them twice. All right, three or four or possibly six times, but only in the case of that one particularly interesting video, which involved four men and a sauna and some rather unlikely (as even Billy, rank amateur, recognised) contortions. Not to mention unexpected amounts of semen.

Not one of those films had shown the hero (see: buggaree) sitting on the toilet at half-past one in the morning, rubbing his face and wondering if all the goings-on downstairs (oh dear; Billy reached over and turned the tap, glad for the soothing and concealing sounds of running water) were quite… normal.

His arse hurt. And his mind was, though he’d always thought it a sad metaphor in the past, reeling. And his dignity—Jesus, the less said about his dignity the better, Billy mused, looking askance at the neat half-circle bite marks on his right hand.

It couldn’t be right, could it? All this want, this, this... wantonness. It was rather difficult to reconcile everyday Billy, Billy Boyd, actor, hobbit, jokester, singer, cheerful bloke-about-town, with the person who had, not twenty minutes ago, been begging for it. Begging, in fact, not only for It, but also whispering deliriously to the naked man (man!) rocking feverishly against him, “I want, I want, please,” and Dom had thrust against him, cock sliding deliciously against Billy’s (Billy blushed hot red again, in the sanctuary of the loo, embarrassed, horrified, delighted), and Dom had said “What? Tell me, fuck, tell me,” and Billy had groaned and tightened his legs around Dom’s waist and said “not too hard, but please, please—slap me, don’t hurt me, but god –”

Dom had bitten his chin, then his neck, and gasped “All right” into Billy’s skin, and when he thrust a finger into Billy’s arse, he’d grated, in a harsh whisper: _Be quiet_. Billy had nodded, frantic already, panting, and then yelped as Dom forced another slick finger inward. Dom had slapped him. Billy had gasped and jerked and nearly come right then.

Billy gripped his hair, now, and decided sitting on the toilet wouldn’t do any more to relieve his tender nether regions. He stood up and turned to flush, caught by his own reflection in the mirror. “Shite,” Billy breathed; his cheeks were pink (though not hand-printed, thank Christ), eyes dark and glazed. Hair plastered down from the shower, lips swollen and red and, and, and debauched.

Billy splashed water on his face, reaching for the flannel, running cold water over the cloth and then (carefully not looking into the mirror, which he was fast developing an aversion to) applying it... southward.

To your arse, he forced himself to think. 

Begging for it, curling up, legs around Dom’s waist, chin tilted back. “Please,” Billy’d whimpered (whimpered!), “fuck me, please please, please,” and Dom had propped himself on his hand and used the other to rub the head of his cock against Billy’s slick, wet arsehole and then pressed inward. It had hurt. Billy had made strangled noises of protest but locked his ankles around Dom and pulled him forward, down. In. And then.

Billy took the cold flannel away and dealt with that, ending by tossing it toward the pile of laundry in the corner, and then sat on the side of the bathtub and wished Dom would wake up and come looking for him, so Billy could inform him, in no uncertain terms, of just what sort of damage a thing the size of Dom’s goddamned penis could do to a thing the size of Billy’s anus. And then Billy wondered when he’d turned into a girl.

Probably when you begged to get fucked, he told himself.

And then it had stopped being painful, or rather, the pain had been accompanied by something else: slippery, tightly wound pleasure, heat pooling in his belly and thighs, balls heavy with it, cock aching and rigid, caught between Dom’s body and his own. He’d been biting his own hand, trying to be quiet; he opened his eyes in time to see Dom come, which tipped Billy over the edge. The idea of Dom thrusting and striving, spilling, spurting into Billy was hotter than the blowjobs and handjobs they’d already shared, though those were hot enough, and Billy had moaned and come, messy and ridiculous and utterly, utterly fucking good.

He was exhausted, but sleep seemed far away. A drink, a drink would help. He didn’t remind himself that it was probably a drink (or two or five) that had started all this—two weeks ago, a drunken accidental kiss and then a drunken snog and then Dom, on his knees in the toilet of a small, cheerful pub and Billy was straight mostly, but that seemed as upside-down as everything else here, besides which no man could be expected to protest coherently with something as talented, as eager, as warm and wet and tight as Dom’s mouth wrapped around his cock. Dom had sucked him off, god, so beautifully, and now.

Now this. Billy stood nude in his own kitchen and took three swallows straight from the bottle, whiskey burn down his esophagus and into his belly: warm, sloshing gently. There was a crumpled pack of cigarettes on the counter, and Billy pulled one out and lit it from the gas ring, moving to stand by the window and opening it a crack as he inhaled. Any minute now Dom would wander into the kitchen, sleepy and rumpled, and tease him: sex and whiskey and cigarettes, what was next, a band? groupies? maybe Billy would smash a guitar and destroy a hotel room. And Billy would snort and say something about a perfectly good guitar, wasted like that, and Dom would come and steal a drag off the cigarette and then stub it out and shove Billy toward the bedroom because fuck, Billy needed to sleep (and was obviously, officially, a girl), but he couldn’t. Just now, he couldn’t.

Billy pondered his complete lack of manliness and smoked the cigarette to the filter, and Dom didn’t come into the kitchen.

Afterward, Billy had shuddered and laughed, breathless, and pushed Dom off and up and out. “Fuck, ’m’not used to it,” he’d said, and Dom had blinked at him, smiling and sweaty and sleepy. He’d kissed Billy, and Billy had kissed him back. That had gone on for a minute or three, then Dom had sprawled over him and been halfway to sleep already, breathing steady and slow, when Billy wriggled and shifted away. “Gonna clean up,” Billy had murmured, and Dom had grunted and run his hand over Billy’s arm as Billy rolled away and out of bed.

 _Come back when you’re done_ , Dom had said, hoarse and low and sleepy, and Billy had nodded, looking at his (Dom’s) hand, curled loosely on the mattress. “S’my bed, wanker,” Billy had added, and Dom (eyes closed, body lax and comfortable) had smiled. 

The night outside the window was wet and black, Billy’s back yard gradations of darkness, the steady flow of air through the window damp and cool. He turned the stubbed-out fag over and over in his fingers, then tossed it toward the kitchen bin and closed the window.

Dom was a lump under the duvet, warm and naked when Billy crawled underneath, skin like a furnace against Billy’s chilled limbs. Dom didn’t wake up, but he did press closer to Billy, draping himself half over him and drooling gently onto his chest. Billy sighed and closed his eyes and tucked himself gingerly under Dom. He’d have a few things to say to Dom in the morning, about physically unlikely events like Dom’s cock fitting up his arse ever again, but for now… for now maybe he’d try to sleep.


End file.
